


Fight or Flight

by Evenmoor



Series: Methos, Master of the Force [8]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Clones as People, Families of Choice, Gen, Immortality, Past Lives, Reunions, Time travel (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-06 02:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenmoor/pseuds/Evenmoor
Summary: The past comes back to bite Methos just as he's making his exit from his latest persona during the age of the Empire.





	1. Akiva

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cyberbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberbutterfly/gifts).

They were a determined bunch, Methos would give them that. Not very bright, but definitely determined. Especially for a group of thick-skulled thugs. It wasn’t as if the situation warranted all this fuss, after all. 

He’d only taken a _ bit _ of their employer’s money. And her grandmother’s Fambaa Delight recipe, but that was hardly the point. Sure, he totally stole part of the pot after that sabacc game turned into a melee, but it wasn’t as if they could _ prove _ anything. 

So they were all clearly overreacting. Mid-level crime bosses could be so petty. Maybe it was the principle of the thing. Or maybe she didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of _ her _ boss. Surat Nuat was known for brutally slaughtering those who failed him, after all. Or anyone, for any reason - or none at all.

Then again, maybe she just wanted to keep a monopoly on that family recipe. He couldn’t remember tasting better Fambaa Delight anywhere in the galaxy. Just as valuable as any state secret, especially given the difficulty in finding real fambaa meat this far in the Outer Rim Territories. Not many would pay to import the stuff all the way to Akiva. (And you needed genuine fambaa to truly pull the recipe together, no imitation or artificial stuff, and definitely no substitutes.)

Still, the goons with blasters and thermal detonators were over the top. And that Weequay with the vibroblade was frankly embarrassing. Poor form, sloppy technique, and an appalling lack of either stealth or subtlety. Said Weequay soon found himself without the vibroblade and without a hand soon after that.

Unfortunately, what they lacked in skill they made up for in numbers and persistence, he acknowledged as he slipped among the mass of people headed from the public transportation terminal to the market. The heat and humidity, though fairly unremarkable to the locals, pressed in on Methos, who did his best to ignore it and blend in. The start of a light drizzle helped with the illusion as hoods and hats and umbrellas came out. 

Well, Akiva was fun while it lasted. He’d arrived there with little more than the clothes on his back, and it looked like he was about to depart in a similar fashion. Provided, of course, he could avoid getting blown up before making his escape. 

Obviously, he couldn’t stay on Akiva. Nuat may just be an up-and-comer in the criminal world, but he’d risen very fast through sheer ruthlessness. Upsetting one of his lieutenants was likely to end with Methos’s head on display somewhere if he stayed. Akiva wasn’t populous enough for him to hide for very long against a determined hunt. 

So: he had to get to the spaceport and get off-world. Problem: so much was obvious to anyone with a brain.

While pretending to browse the stalls, he calculated the best way to get to the spaceport and get offworld without detection. Fastest would be to steal a speeder, but that tended to draw attention. Public transport was another possibility, of course, but he rather suspected they’d be waiting for him at the terminal. A disguise might help with blending in during a period of high traffic. Then there were the catacomb passages, but-

Suddenly he felt it: something he hadn’t felt in… far longer than he cared to admit. But he could go a thousand years - _ ten thousand _ \- without feeling that Buzz in his head and still never forget it or mistake it for anything else.

An Immortal was nearby.

His last encounter with an Immortal had resulted in him owing the Organa family his life, much to his chagrin. 

In a galaxy as big as this one, Immortals were few and far between. And Immortality wasn’t what it used to be, really. Suffering a hyperdrive malfunction, bouncing off a supernova, or taking a ship-mounted blaster cannon to the face were just as fatal to Immortals as to most anyone else. Once, Methos actually ejected an Immortal into a sun. Becoming fuel for a fusion reaction - fatal, too. By the time that one had died, Methos was far enough away to avoid any catastrophes when the Quickening inevitably struck and temporarily shorted out a lot of his ship’s systems. 

Alas, there were no handy suns here on Akiva proper in which to dispose of a would-be challenger. Methos had no intention of waiting around to see if this Immortal wanted to challenge him, anyway. 

A smile twitched at his lips. He abandoned his feigned browsing and headed in his chosen direction. It wasn’t _ quite _ killing two birds with one stone, but it would do for the moment. 

* * *

The hatch could have been any other utility maintenance access, aside from the bogus number markings. Completely innocuous and hiding in plain sight. Well, in an alley, but still. It took him only a few moments to locate the release switch and trigger it. 

He climbed down the ladder into the darkness below, closing the hatch securely behind him. His eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, which was only broken by periodic long-lasting battery-powered lamps lining the corridor. Fortunately, the temperature and humidity were much less oppressive underground. And, for the moment at least, it was dry.

Methos could still sense the other Immortal, whoever it was, and they were close. But the Buzz wasn’t directional; it only gave a small idea of distance. The other Immortal would likely take at least a short time to realize that Methos was no longer on the street, but below it. 

He followed the dimly-lit passage for several long minutes, the Buzz now just a distant tingle in his mind. Several other corridors connected, their passages hidden behind heavy doors that could only be opened from the other side. (That wouldn’t have stopped Methos; he could use the Force to open them if he wanted, but he had a specific destination in mind.)

This route was a bit of an open secret among the locals of Akiva, but one jealously guarded from off-worlders, especially Imperials. Methos, however, loved to collect secrets, especially for contingencies like this.

Finally, he reached the end of the corridor. The hatch opened easily at his touch on the control beside it, revealing another corridor, this one much rougher and infinitely older. 

The Catacombs of Akiva.

For a moment, Methos extended his Force-senses outward, running intangible fingers along the ancient tunnels that twisted and turned in a dizzying maze under the city of Myrra. The weight of life and death and time pressed down on him in these catacombs. But it didn’t take him long to locate a sense of his destination. 

There.

The Force gently nudged him, _ this way, this way_. He followed its whispers. Down here, in the cool darkness, the only real sounds were his breathing, his footsteps, and the occasional movement of some unseen creature. 

Time seemed to slip away as Methos navigated the twisting labyrinth in almost total pitch black, guided only by his hand along the wall, a vague knowledge of the layout of the catacombs, and the urging of the Force guiding him down this passage and then that one. 

Then he was there. Even from this side, the door was fairly well-concealed. But someone had planted a colony of bioluminescent fungi to mark the location. Despite being native to even warmer climes, the tiny mushrooms had since spread over much of the corridor, providing a pale, eerie sort of lighting to an otherwise innocuous tunnel. 

A slight smile touched his lips as he gingerly ran his fingers along the wall, feeling the heat emanating from beyond it. Nix would be happy that his hidden door was still there and intact after all these years. It was a clever piece of work, and could only be opened by someone with a powerful magnet aimed at a certain spot on the wall. Methos didn’t have a magnet, but he did have the Force. 

The Buzz hit him full on all at once, almost the same moment he heard footsteps. A half-shadowed figure stepped into view, clad in a mishmash of armor from half a dozen sources.

“Who would have thought this day would come?” a voice remarked, almost chidingly. A chill swept over Methos. He knew that voice. Of all the Immortals in the universe. “After all this time, we meet again… I wasn’t even sure you were in this galaxy. Yet here you are. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. The legendary Methos. Amazing, isn’t it? I actually get another chance to take the head of the eldest Immortal! Glorious!”

The ghostly lighting glimmered on a Mandalorian _ beskad_. The ignorant might look at the _ beskad _ and assume it to be some sort of machete for clearing undergrowth. Many a foolish Force-user had fallen victim in the past to such assumptions. There were few weapons in the galaxy that could stand up against a lightsaber in a fair fight, and a _ beskad _ was one of them, forged from a unique iron ore found only on Mandalore and its moon Concordia.

Not good news for Methos, armed with little more than the stolen vibroblade and his wits. Then again, he’d survived many times with less. 

“Are you really as stupid as you look in that clown suit?” Methos drawled lazily. “This is holy ground. Put that thing away.”

The other man seemed unimpressed.

“You really don’t remember me at all, do you? That’s… actually disappointing, considering how long I've looked forward to this,” the man chuckled. “I may have failed to take your head the last time we met, Methos. But this time things are different. Here, now, no one knows who you are. No one knows your name. No one knows the legends of Death on a Pale Horse. No one worships you. There _ is _ no holy ground here!”

Despite his growing unease, Methos didn't respond immediately and instead allowed the silence that filled the gap to stretch out awkwardly.

“Yes, you really _ are _ that stupid,” he finally replied. “Let me spell it out for you in small words so you can actually understand: the Empire and the Separatists before them may be using these catacombs for a droid factory, but they’re still considered sacred ground by the locals. As for who _ you _ are, I can’t say that I remember your name. I’m afraid my memory for idiots isn’t what it used to be. Living to a ripe old age can do that to a person, so they say.”

“Do you actually expect me to fall for that drivel? How the mighty have fallen. It makes no difference. If I don’t take your head myself, the mortals about five minutes behind me will.”

“Oh, made a few friends while you were here?”

“One or two. Surat Nuat wants to display your head next to that mid-level boss you stole from, whatever her name was.”

“Always did admire his tastefulness in home decor. It’s the subtle touches. But back to the point. You hear that distant sort of rumble? Maybe not in that stupid helmet you’re wearing. That’s the sound of the flash flood coming this way. I’d guess we have about a minute before it gets here and washes us both away. Think you can kill me and take my head in that time?”

“Fool. I’m even more powerful than the first time we met. I have power you can’t possibly imagine!” The man gestured with his free hand, and Methos felt phantom fingers wrap around his throat. How unoriginal. 

Methos slipped out of the Force grip like an eel. Even through his shields, he could feel his opponent’s shock. The guy really was an even bigger idiot than he looked. The distant rumble had quickly grown into a roar as unfathomable amounts of water rushed down the catacomb passages. And drowning was a miserable way to die. Before the other man could properly react to the sudden revelation that Methos could use the Force, too, Methos drew on the Force and _ shoved_. 

His opponent, unprepared and caught off-guard, flew backwards uncontrollably, his limbs flailing as he disappeared into the gloom of the tunnel. Simultaneously, Methos triggered the mechanism on the hidden door behind him. Light and heat enveloped him as he dashed through the door, and it slammed shut behind him. For the briefest breath, nothing happened. Then there was a flare in the Force, and the entire door started to vibrate and warp. If he managed to destroy - or even simply damage it sufficiently - and the floodwaters came...

Methos pondered his options for a moment before falling back on his favorite, which had served him well for so long: he ran. 


	2. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When faced with a choice of fight or flight, Methos chose flight. Now he must complete his escape from Akiva.

The catacombs and the factory they contained were massive, churning out droids to serve the Imperial machine, as they had once done for the Separatists. Fabricators, processors, assembly lines, conveyors; he dodged and weaved his way through and amongst them, conveniently making himself a rather difficult target for anyone who might be following. 

And if he drew on the Force just a bit to enhance his speed and endurance, no one here would notice. He did earn a startled glance or two from droid technicians as he blew by them on his way upwards, but they seemed more confused than alarmed. 

Methos could no longer sense the other Immortal; whether or not he had succeeded in getting past the door or got carried away by the flood, Methos had no desire to stick around and find out. 

Finally, he found what he was looking for: open sky. A landing zone complete with a cargo ship almost fully loaded with droids soon to be shipped offworld. Slowing to a walk, he easily spotted the supervisor, a florid-faced human armed with a data pad, stylus, and a very irritated expression, standing as much out of the now-torrential downpour as he could. Methos straightened his heavy rain slicker slightly, pulled the hood low and walked right up to him.

“Sir, I have a courier item to go out with this batch of droids. Top priority,” he announced brazenly. 

“Whose orders is it this time? On second thought, never mind.” The supervisor’s glower darkened as the rain dripped from his hat. “Kriff this. It’s been hard enough just getting this place up and running again in the state it was in-”

Ah, yes, the horrifying brainchild of cybernetics specialist Yar and slicer extraordinaire Snitch. Killed production at this factory through the end of the Clone Wars, with no obvious culprit but some malfunctioning battle droids. Methos grinned inwardly at the memory but kept focus on the Imperial’s ongoing rant. 

“-and there’s no way we can keep up our production and shipment quotas if the senior officers keep using these deliveries for their personal business!”

Nice to know that Imperial (in)efficiency and corruption were the same as always.

“Not gonna argue with you, sir. But you can’t argue with _ them_, either.”

“Fair point,” snorted the supervisor. “Worse places in the galaxy than Akiva, and they’d know just where to send you. Alright, get on with it.”

Methos immediately started towards the ship, turning back briefly while still walking.

“Oh, sir, I think I heard a disturbance in the factory on my way out. Not sure what was going on, something to do with the lower levels, but you probably want to check on it.”

The last thing Methos heard before climbing into the ship was a stream of furious curses as the supervisor disappeared back inside. Likely, he and his compatriots would be too busy dealing with the sudden flooding of their lower levels to even remember Methos existed.

As Methos entered the cockpit of the cargo ship, he was greeted by the startled expression of a younger human man, who was wearing a rather nondescript flight suit and utility vest.

“I’m the pilot, who are you?” the man half-stammered, his dark eyes wide. 

“I’m the passenger,” Methos replied blandly as he removed his rain slicker. “Courier for the upper echelons here. You know how it is.”

“They didn’t tell me anything about any passengers on this run!”

“And this is me, telling you about a passenger. Do I need to spell this out for you? Anyway, I’m about as thrilled about it as you are, I’m sure.”

“Oh. Uh, right. Well, take a seat and we’ll be underway in a moment.” Clearly not professional military. Possibly a conscript or a contractor. Just another cog in the Imperial machine. 

“Anywhere I can stow this?” Methos held up his slicker, with rainwater dripping gracelessly to the deck.

“Oh, um. Right over there.” The pilot pointed vaguely behind him towards the main hatch. It took Methos a moment to locate the closet, which conveniently came equipped with a drying feature for cases just like this. Not that he intended to actually return to Akiva, but still. 

“I hope you have alternative arrangements for your return flight. I’m not coming back to Akiva,” the pilot cheerfully remarked as Methos reentered the cockpit and sat down in the passenger seat. “Got a new route as soon as I make this delivery.”

“I’ll manage,” Methos remarked. The young man had recovered his composure well, and his hands practically danced across the controls. 

“Cargo Flight Cresh-Osk-Resh-872268 now departing.”

_ “Cargo Flight Cresh-Osk-Resh-872268, departure confirmed,” _ came a voice over the coms. _ “Enjoy the Core Worlds while you can.” _

“Cargo Flight Cresh-Osk-Resh-872268, will do,” the pilot replied. He glanced over his shoulder at Methos even as he brought the engines to power, the ship lifting from the ground and blasting skywards through the rain.

_ Core Worlds_, mused Methos. Where was this ship going, anyway? Ah, well. He’d just catch another flight to pretty much anywhere else in the galaxy once he got there.

* * *

“We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace in a moment. Ever been to Coruscant before? Never really cared much for it, myself. Always felt so claustrophobic,” the pilot rambled on, much as he had been doing practically the entire flight from Akiva. Mostly completely meaningless trivia about everything he learned from his time on Akiva, all of which Methos already knew. 

It was confirmed: the universe hated him.

_ Wait_. Had the pilot just said _ Coruscant_?

_ Well... kriff. _

The ecumenopolis loomed large through the cockpit window. And through the Force, a vast, hungry darkness lurked below. Yes, the Emperor was here, reveling in the horror and misery he’d created with such care. Methos could almost hear the anguished screams, taste the salty tears of despair; even from all these kilometers above, he could smell ozone and burnt flesh. Only echoes, really, but still rippling outwards in the Force, like a putrefaction spreading from an infected wound.

“Are you-- are you alright? You look a little green there.” The pilot was staring at him in actual concern. 

“I’m fine,” Methos responded curtly, uncomfortably aware at how much his mask had slipped. “Aren’t you supposed to be landing this thing?”

“No need to get worked up. We’re almost there. Honestly, if you’re space sick, there’s no need to get defensive. Lots of people get space sick. Not me, I mean, but-”

For a moment, Methos actually forgot about the gaping maw of the Dark Side in the heart of Coruscant and stared in disbelief at the back of the pilot’s head as he went off _ again_, this time about catching bantha flu once as a child. 

Oh, yes, the universe hated him.

There were, however, small mercies: the cargo ship’s course took it to the far side of Coruscant, away from the pit of blackness that Methos recognized all too well. They landed smoothly and without incident. But as Methos stepped off this ship, the pilot’s voice called out to him one last time.

“I’ve got to check in, make sure the cargo gets unloaded properly. You sure you’re alright? Maybe you should see a doctor.”

Methos shot him an incredulous look. The pilot held up his hands defensively.

“Maybe just a drink, then. Probably do you a world of good.”

Methos shook his head and walked away. He was probably right. 

“Excuse me, sir.” A nondescript Imperial in drab olive approached him somewhat diffidently. “I have a priority message holo to deliver to you, sir.”

The fellow held out a small holo projector towards him.

“You sure you have the right person?” Methos frowned suspiciously.

“Sir, I was ordered to deliver this to the passenger on this cargo ship. Since you’re the only passenger, you must be the right person,” was the reply.

Reluctantly, Methos accepted the holo, knowing full well who it must be from. So much for his daring escape. The messenger turned to leave. 

“Hold up a moment,” Methos interrupted him. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good place to get a drink?”


	3. Lethe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos, having arrived on Coruscant and aware he unfortunately hasn't managed to shake his Immortal opponent, decides to do the reasonable, rational thing and go get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally hadn't planned to post this chapter so quickly after the previous one, since I am a hopeless tinkerer and editor, but reader HakSem seemed so excited for it, and I wouldn't want anyone to chew off their fingers in anticipation on my account! So, please enjoy this latest chapter.

The bar the Imperial suggested turned out to be a no-go, unfortunately. Methos was tempted initially, if for no other reason than the prospect of alcohol, but the overwhelmingly pretentious atmosphere and the high-class tinkling music emanating from the place turned him back before he even made it in the door. That, and his attire - well-suited for the hot and humid climes of Akiva - would almost certainly get him thrown out in short order without sufficient credit to back him up. Enough bribe money could gain a person entry anywhere, no matter how they were dressed, especially on a place like Coruscant. At least he didn’t stink of swamp mud, this time. 

Methos had hoped that a junior officer would’ve suggested a decent gin joint rather than assuming he was some schmuck trying to emulate his betters. He knew he shouldn’t have been so optimistic. Even that hapless pilot probably would’ve had a better suggestion. Still, all wasn’t lost in his quest to get thoroughly drunk before his date with doom.

After a moment of thought, he used the holo device he’d been given and connected to the local datanet. A single quick query brought up a map of the area and all the bars within a mile of his current location. This close to a spaceport, even one operated by the Imperial Navy, there were quite a lot. But his eye was drawn to one a couple levels down. 

Maybe it was the name. “Lethe.” Here on Coruscant, with its uncounted multitudes from equally uncounted cultures and languages, the word could mean anything. But for Methos, the word stirred up old memories, ironically. Ironically, because once upon a time “Lethe” was the name of the mythical River of Forgetfulness that spirits would drink from on the way to the Underworld, to forget their earthly life. 

That sounded like the perfect place to drown his current woes. 

Happily, the bar was easy enough to find. Before he even realized what was happening, a small throng of people surrounded him, practically shoving him inside. Shift change. Which of course meant a whole lot of people set loose on the city-planet that never sleeps, looking to get thoroughly intoxicated. 

“Hey, you’re new!” exclaimed a pink-skinned Zeltron woman, who seemed to have gotten a head start on her alcohol intake. Despite that, she still exuded the natural charm and appeal common to her species. “If I were you, new guy, I’d avoid the drink droid. Thing’s totally busted. Can’t tell the difference between a Corellian Twister and a Starshine Surprise.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Methos replied, somewhat amused. “I’m more of a beer guy, anyway.”

“You’re kinda cute, for a human. Care to share a drink with me? They got a couple’a good Mando beers here.”

Who was Methos to turn down a free drink? It wasn’t as if he were swimming in cash at the moment, anyway.

“I’d be delighted.”

“Ooh, and so polite, too! I think I’m going to enjoy tonight.” 

Well, probably not as much as she was hoping, Methos thought wryly, since he unfortunately had a distinctly less entertaining appointment waiting for him, leaving not nearly enough time for that sort of amusement. She, of course, had no way of knowing this, but he didn’t want to ruin her fun while it lasted. Instead, he flashed her a charming grin and she laughed, slipping through the now-crowded floor towards the bar.

Methos inhaled deeply and finally took a moment to examine the decor. There was a very eclectic mix of old and older furnishings, though an-obviously new piece of wall art caught his gaze. 

To the casual observer, it looked like an abstract riot of color across the dull metal that formed the wall. After a moment, though, Methos’s all-too-experienced eye started pulling out patterns. Letters, forming words in Mando’a: _ Nu digor haat, jii vi mav_. 

“Do not forget the truth: now we are free.”

How very poetic. And somewhat odd, given the current state of affairs in the galaxy. Oh, the irony of freedom on Coruscant, the center of the ruthless Imperial authority. It wasn’t very likely any of the increasingly-intoxicated patrons ever noticed the hidden message. The only reasons Methos spotted it were because he was still unfortunately sober and he’d seen this exact type of art before.

Plastered across the opposite wall was a much more obvious message, in bold Galactic Basic: “Beer, big eats, good company and return to camp.” A translation of a Mandalorian saying that basically summed up a great night out. 

Either the owner was a Mando or a big fan of them. Hopefully that meant good things about the quality of the booze. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out; even as the though crossed his mind, the pretty Zeltron returned with the drinks. Methos accepted his gratefully, all too eager to let the alcohol burn past his tongue. 

As he lifted the beverage to his lips, however, a shiver of warning shot through him and he froze. At the same time, the smiling Zeltron froze, too, her eyes wide as she stared at someone standing right behind Methos. 

“Dehshaa, you have five seconds to get out of my bar before I com Yishi and tell him exactly where to find you. I hear he still wants to snap your fingers off as appetizers.”

“You wouldn’t!” the Zeltron protested, her entire body language transforming from tipsy allure into pitiful helplessness. Methos, meanwhile, remained completely and utterly still as if turned into a statue right there on the spot, the glass still raised.

“Trying to drug and rob my customers? _ Try me_,” the man behind him countered ruthlessly. “Five. Four.”

The Zeltron might as well have performed a magic trick with how fast she vanished towards the door. 

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. Sorry about Dehshaa. What a waste of good beer. Let me get you a new one on the house.”

Finally lowering the glass, Methos managed to turn around to face the man behind him. Hazel eyes met dark brown-gold. 

“Well, _ kriff_,” Sever remarked succinctly.


	4. Aletheia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos's reunion with Sever isn't exactly a comfortable one.

The fact that Sever had dragged him into the back room and not either shot him or thrown him out on his hind end had to be a good thing, Methos reasoned. Silently, though, he glanced in annoyance at the ceiling. If this wasn’t the Force at play, somehow messing with his life, again… Not that he could tell, as closed off as he was at the moment, what with the Sith Lord Emperor of the Galaxy not a half a planet away. 

Really, though, the more immediate threat to his health and welfare stood not two feet in front of him. 

Sever just stared at him with his arms crossed. 

Kriff, he looked older than Methos now. Already. He still seemed to be as fit as ever, but the lines on his face were carved more deeply, and several unfamiliar scars marred his skin. Were those flecks of gray in his hair? It was hard to tell in this light…

“So…” Methos licked his inexplicably dry lips and swallowed to keep his voice from cracking. “You own a bar now.”

“Won it from the previous owner. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The silence between them stretched out uncomfortably.

“Kriff, Methos, why are you here?!” Sever finally exploded.

“Here, where? Here in your bar, or here on Coruscant?”

“Either! Both!”

“I admit, Coruscant was a bit of an accident.” Methos felt a habitual smirk tugging at his lips at the absurdity of the situation. “As to your bar, well. Someone’s trying to kill me, and I didn’t want to go into this particular encounter entirely sober.”

Sever gave him The Look. Methos had applied this same Look to other people many times in the past, but rarely merited being on the receiving end; it translated to basically “Why in the name of sanity would you do something so monumentally STUPID?”. Sever had perfected The Look, it seemed. Yet another thing that Methos inadvertently passed on to him, apparently.

“I know you’re… _ you _, but why?!” the clone demanded.

With a sigh, Methos pulled out the holo device and triggered the recording.

_ “You didn’t think you can get away from me that easily, did you? It wasn’t hard to figure out which ship you hopped and where it was heading, and a personal cruiser can outrun a plodding cargo ship any day of the week. I could drop you where you stand right now watching this message, if I didn’t think the Imperials would throw your corpse in an incinerator before I could take your head. Instead, let’s finish our business, once and for all. I’ve included a time and place in the metadata of this message. Don’t try to run away again - I’ve got my eyes on you now. Enjoy your last hours of life, Horseman.” _

The blue-tinted image vanished. It took a moment for Methos to realize that Sever was actually laughing. Not a full-bellied laugh of hilarity, just the semi-silent jerking motion that had become all too common as the war dragged on.

“A bit over-dramatic, isn’t it?”

“You should’ve seen him back on Akiva,” Methos replied, unable to stop the quippy response from slipping out. For just a second there, he’d actually forgotten. Order 66, the secrets and lies and betrayal, the lot. For a moment, it was as if none of it had happened. But only a moment.

The laughter slipped away. 

“This’s gotta do with your past, doesn’t it? He’s like... like you, isn’t he?”

“Immortal, you mean? Yes. He almost killed me the last time we met. I mean, before he found me on Akiva.”

Sever gave him an appraising look. 

“Can you take him?”

“Honestly? No idea. I have no clue what he’s been up to the last who-knows-how-many years. He could’ve been training just to kill other Immortals. I escaped him on Akiva because I had surprise on my side, and I knew the terrain.”

“Which all rather begs the question as to why you’d go to a duel to the death _ drunk_!”

Methos stared at Sever for a moment. The clone appeared genuinely concerned for him, but the Immortal couldn’t bank on him to have actually gotten past everything that happened after Order 66. 

“It’s a short, sad story. One that begins and ends with me nearly getting decapitated by a guy I’d never met before, who didn’t even have the courtesy to buy me a drink before he tried to kill me. Can I get my free beer now and enjoy it in peace?”

“Come on, you miserable old bastard!”

“What do you want me to say, Sever?” snapped Methos. Every word tasted of pure bitterness in his mouth. “That he’s the reason I’m here? That I’m only in this galaxy because of him? I lost everything and everyone I ever knew because of him. Five thousand years of my life, gone forever. Not even the stars were familiar anymore. Now matter what I tried, I couldn’t go back. That man did that to me, and somehow I can’t even _remember his name_ anymore!”

Methos sat back on a crate, his vitriol momentarily expended. For some reason, though, Sever just got that old stubborn expression on his face. 

“Y’know, when you first told me all those years ago how you were Immortal, I got drunk out of my mind. For a long time, really, after I went my own way. It all seemed like some cruel cosmic joke. The men with half-lives led by the man who couldn’t die. The loyal soldiers murdering their loyal generals. But then some things happened, and I finally accepted it all. A weapon can’t fire itself. Only the man holding it can. After Order 66… when I shot you, I wasn’t the man. I was the weapon. And hating myself for that only makes the Emperor win again. So I decided to forgive myself and stop being wrapped up in my own problems. Then I thought about you, and I realized that all of us, all of us who aren’t Immortals, even the Jedi... we’re all ghosts to you. The dead and the soon-to-be-dead.”

Methos opened his mouth to say something, but Sever cut him off with a sharp belaying gesture.

“And finally I thought to myself... No matter how brief, no matter how… how _ ephemeral _ my life might seem compared to yours, or in the grand scheme of the universe, I, Sever Bralor of House Skirata, lived. And that _ means _ something. _ You _ might live forever, or something close to it, but that doesn’t make _ my _ life have less meaning. And in that, you and I, we’re equal. We’re _ brothers_. And anyone who has a problem with my brother has a problem with me. You aren’t alone in this.”

Methos felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He looked away.

“I had brothers once. The things we did… the things _ I _ did… We were like the Emperor, only smaller and more petty, on one tiny corner of one insignificant, primitive planet. But to those people in that time… We sowed terror wherever we went. They feared us and we _ reveled _ in it. They called us the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death. Guess which one I was. You sure you want to call that man your brother?”

“Look, Methos,” Sever replied without hesitation. “I don’t know what you were like back then. I don’t have mystical Force visions that let me to see the past or whatever. I don’t know the Horseman. All I know is the man who drove himself into the ground to save the lives of a hundred clones he didn't know, and then placed himself on the front lines of a war he didn’t agree with in order to protect them. The man who tried to blame himself every time one of them died anyway. That man is my brother, and that man is you. Death makes companions of us all, sooner or later. Even you, one day. So let’s make that day later, shall we?”


	5. Past, Present, and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos finally completes his duel with the Immortal who has chased him from Akiva.

Methos stood idly in the open space, projecting an ease he didn’t really feel. This location for the duel had once been a park of sorts, a long time ago. But whatever money had been put to maintaining the artificial environment had long ago vanished, leaving only sad, dead plants and dirt. But it wasn’t the symbolism that discomfited Methos. 

The last time he’d borrowed a clone’s armor, he’d been on Coruscant, too. Only that time, they’d been sweeping through the Jedi Temple, seeing all the bodies, hoping against hope that someone - _ anyone _ \- had escaped the slaughter. All they escaped with on that day was the satisfaction of completing Jocasta Nu’s last, desperate mission to keep the Jedi Archives out of the hands of the Sith. 

This wasn’t GAR gear, at least; this was the armor Sever had earned through his own blood, sweat, and tears from their time on Concord Dawn - genuine Mandalorian _ beskar’gam_. The armor’s natural dull gray sheen had long since been covered up by mostly abstract designs and patterns. There were some new ones since the last time Methos had seen the armor, with the most recent design (vaguely resembling some sort of bird) done in white. Methos had his own _ beskar’gam _ , of course, with actual _ beskar _ rather than the more common durasteel, but it wasn’t exactly accessible at the moment. Too bad. 

“Well, well, well. Here we are again.”

The armored figure stepped out of the gloom, even as the Buzz tingled warningly in Methos’s head.

“I was half-expecting that you’d try to run again. Did you rob a second-hand thrift store on Mandalore for that armor?” 

“Stole it off of Jango Fett’s decapitated corpse, actually,” Methos retorted with black humor. “Where’d you get yours, a gift shop on Canto Bight?” 

“I trust you came alone,” his opponent sneered in derision, almost jokingly. 

“As alone as you did.”

Three shots rang out in quick succession. Methos could almost swear that he could feel the whiz of displaced air as the projectiles passed by him, followed in less than a heartbeat by the unmistakable sound of bullets connecting with soft flesh. And that followed by the thump of bodies collapsing to the dirt somewhere in the darkness. Sever still had it, that was for sure. Too bad his weapon wouldn’t work on the heavily-armored Immortal.

“Was that-”

“-an actual slugthrower? Yes, actually. Not as flashy as a blaster, requires more skill, but potentially just as deadly in the right hands. With the added value of not immediately giving away your location.” Methos smirked sardonically at his opponent. Not that he could see it behind the helmet, but he could certainly _ hear _ it. 

“You brought backup.”

“So did you. Afraid you couldn’t take me in a fair fight?” Methos kept his eyes and mind focused, even as their verbal sparring continued. They began circling each other, each almost daring the other to make the first strike. They were evenly matched in terms of height, and both wielded _ beskade_. Methos wasn’t as heavily-muscled or armored as his opponent, but he made up for it with speed and agility. In a game like this, all too often the winner was whoever scored the first blow. 

“Oh, they were going to try to kill me as soon as I finished with you. I’m almost disappointed that I won’t get the chance to return the favor. I planned to send their heads back to Surat Nuat by parcel post. Now they’ll have some company as soon as I track down your friend with the slugthrower.” 

“I suppose you have to be confident if you go out in public dressed like that,” Methos jabbed relentlessly.

“I defeated you once, Horseman. This time, I’ll finish the job and take your head. Just you and me, steel to steel. No fancy Force powers. The way it’s meant to be!” 

With that, the fight was on.

The other Immortal opened aggressively, with a series of hacking blows that Methos barely avoided.

The last time they fought, narrow corridors and heavy bulkheads restricted their movement. This time, not so much. This time, Methos took advantage of the extra space to make full use of his ability to duck and dodge the other man’s heavy strikes. 

One blow from a _ beskad _ could easily sever a limb. Or remove his head. Fortunately, Mandalorian armor offered a strong balance between protection and flexibility, playing into Methos’s superior speed.

His opponent seemed to expect him to parry and block, as had happened in their first encounter. Different terrain, different weapons. Different time. 

A quick feint, then sidestepping out of range. His feet kicked up dust from an old path as he skirted across it. With each strike, Methos looked for his opening. 

Under ordinary circumstances, a duel between two Force-users would either end very quickly or become an extraordinarily dramatic affair. With the Emperor so close, neither Methos nor his opponent dared call upon the Force in this fight. Or maybe the other man was just so confident in his ability to beat Methos _mano a mano_, as he had in their first encounter. Either way, he wasn't drawing on the Force, either. As Methos twisted away from a hack that would have taken off his left arm, he felt almost as if he were trying to tango in treacle. Had he really become so dependent on the Force in combat over the years? He was bloody rusty fighting like this.

Fortunately, the _ beskar’gam _ did its job, though the glancing blow left his arm tingling and chipped some paint. Sever would never let him hear the end of it, if he lived through this. 

“First hit is mine!” crowed his opponent. Methos didn’t waste his breath with witty repartee. Instead, he stepped lightly backwards and assumed a mocking Soresu ready stance. The combination of his Mando gear with an obviously Jedi fighting position seemed to confuse the other man momentarily.

So when he charged at Methos again, Methos was ready. Instead of following through with the sort of defensive dance associated with Soresu, however, he launched into a much more brutal and straightforward Mandalorian attack. Before the other Immortal could recover from the sudden change in tactics, Methos shoved his way inside his guard, forcing his opponent’s back against the trunk of a dead tree and tangling the _ beskade _ between their armored torsos. 

In a moment, Methos released the vibroblade hidden in his gauntlet into his left hand. He stabbed upward underneath the other Immortal’s armor at the narrow vulnerable point at the waist. Even as his opponent registered the sudden shock and pain, Methos twisted the blade viciously. A debilitating wound, even temporarily fatal, for an Immortal, as he yanked the weapon out. 

The other Immortal collapsed to his knees, _ beskad _ falling limply to the powdery dirt and dead grass. Methos stepped on it and shoved it several yards away with his boot. There was only one thing left to do. He reached over and pulled off his opponent’s helmet. 

The defeated man blinked up at him, as if surprised or dazed. 

“You… cheated…” he gasped, wavering as his fate stared him in the face. 

“Hardly,” replied Methos. Then with one brutal slash, he removed the other man’s head from his body. The old familiar white glow rose from the corpse and settled into Methos even as a harsh electric tang filled the air. 

Methos spread his arms in welcome as lightning struck.

* * *

Sever was waiting for him, his rifle leaning comfortably against his shoulder. 

“So. That happened. You weren’t kidding when you said it’d be dramatic. What’d you call it, a Quickening?”

“Now imagine that electrical spectacle on a colony ship carrying ten thousand civilians. I know I did when we fought the first time. I’m not sure it even occurred to that idiot.”

“But if you lost the first fight, why didn’t he, y’know, cut off _ your _ head back then?”

Methos sighed heavily. Remembering. 

“He _ tried_. I don’t remember word-for-word what he said right before it happened, probably something stupid and pretentious, but I do remember the sword at my neck. I was about to die. I _ should’ve _ died. But I didn’t. To this day, Sever, I don’t understand what happened. I was there, about to die… and then I was elsewhere.”

“Last time I checked, Jedi can’t teleport,” Sever noted sardonically after a long moment. “Kriff, _ Sith _ can’t teleport. Wait a minute, _ you _ can’t teleport, can you?!”

“Don’t I wish.” Teleportation powers would have been useful on a couple occasions in his life. “And I wasn’t even a Jedi back then. Just an Immortal. An _ old _ Immortal, to be fair, but still just Immortal. Some of us had some pretty unusual powers, but not me. Just a fair hand with a sword and not getting myself killed. So I wish I could give you a better answer for what happened. Wish I could give _ myself _ a better answer.”

That… _ place _ he had found himself without explanation still haunted him on occasion. Even in memory, it seemed simultaneously both illusory and more real than the world around him. The unfathomable dark infinity surrounding him, punctuated by tiny points of light like a sea of stars, sprawled by impossible physics-defying paths that rippled under his feet. But it wasn’t what he saw, so much, but the _ feeling_. It was as if the very eternity in which he stood was alive, buzzing with overwhelming energy and life and _ time _ as much as-

He gave his head a quick shake, as if such a simple physical gesture could free him from the indescribably intense memory. 

“Seen that look before,” Sever remarked in an oddly sympathetic tone. “I get it. You don’t need to try to put it into words if you don’t want to.”

Methos finally met Sever’s eyes, his expression slipping into an altogether too habitual wry smile. 

“See? I think you finally realized that I’m just a guy. Take away the Force powers and Immortality, and I’m no wiser or better than anyone else.”

“Just a miserable old bastard.” 

Methos offered a dry chuckle, not bothering to argue the point.

“Well, then, you wouldn’t mind if I crashed at your place for a few days? One miserable old bastard deserves another.” 

Sever laughed, the unadulterated amusement lighting up his already too-old face. 

“I’ve got bills to pay and a bar to run, you cheapskate!”

“As it so happens, I recently came into possession of a particularly excellent recipe for Fambaa Delight…”


End file.
